


Father of Dragons

by StarsOverTheEast



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, not as dark - dark lords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 01:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13225614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsOverTheEast/pseuds/StarsOverTheEast
Summary: Manwë has his eagles. Mairon has his wolves.And Melkor crafts the dragons to be his own.





	Father of Dragons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samwisespotatoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwisespotatoes/gifts).



If Melkor views them in the shadows he can almost believe they are his. 

Feathers of black that grow long and feel like ash against his skin. Eyes that blaze with fury and power and all the raw emotion that he feels. A voice that pierces the night and sends the orcs fleeing into their holes with curses and fears of finding themselves a meal.

But then the fire lights once more and Melkor sees the eagles for what they are. Not his, no, but Manwë’s.

Birds that stand tall and proud and gaze towards Taniquetil even in the dark of Angband’s dungeons. That take to the air and would rather fly than seek out the elves that watch him from hidden nooks and plot his destruction. Birds that while they bend to his voice gaze at him with hate and fear and seem to mock him.

You have changed us in your image, but we are not yours.

No, no.

Nothing is his.

Not the eagles, not the beasts that prowl, not even the orcs that dangle from Mairon’s and his own fingertips. All creations of others, no matter how much of Melkor’s own life and power had been poured into them. 

“I am yours,” Mairon whispers and then gestures towards the maiar that line his hall. “They are yours.”

“You serve me,” Melkor replies. “But I did not create you. I did not give you life.”

He wants more, he desires more. Arda is his but he has not given her life. Not as Manwë has, not as Yavannna, not even as Mairon.

He envies Manwë of his birds. Of the way his brother has crafted a reflection of himself, a piece of his soul made alive. He envies Yavanna of her trees; of her plants and seeds, and the way she has created life as Eru has, on a smaller scale. 

He envies Mairon of his wolves. Of the creatures he has made his own that look to him with an affection that a child gives its father. Wolves that are ever at his side, ever seeking his approval, ever willing and ready to please. A creature that Mairon may call his.

And Melkor feels alone.

-

Mairon finds his master in the forge, bent over a table clustered with half finished projects and pieces of creatures that he doubts will ever see the light of day. Tools lie scattered about, broken and disposed of and the room smells of ash and earth. He crosses to Melkor’s side, slips the hammer from his grip and thinks to draw him from this room that seems to weigh the vala down. 

“Master,” Mairon says, his hand on Melkor’s arm, “allow me to finish your work. I will -”

But no, no he cannot finish this work. He cannot give unto Melkor something his master desires to create himself. 

How much has Mairon crafted for his lord? Numerous weapons; swords that can pierce the finest of armor and hammers that when they strike the ground leave gaping mouths waiting to swallow. He has placed rings upon his hand, fitted him with black armor, and created the very crown the vala wears now. Placed it upon his head and bowed before him, the true Elder King of Arda. 

And now …

A lizard scampers across the floor and up the leg of the table. It settles on the edge for a moment, gaze fixed on the ainur and the light of the fire casts its scales in dazzling hues of light. I

t is one of the many that Mairon has noticed about the fortress. Ever racing about and providing sport to all manner of the residents that reside there. He has taken little notice before but now considers the creature in full. The scales that mimic the heavy breastplate beside it, the clawed feet that are a hand of daggers, and the flick of its tail which stirs the dust on the table. There is a silence for a moment and Mairon guesses at his master’s thoughts almost before Melkor decides them himself. 

The vala grabs the lizard with one hand and smiles as it slips through his grasp and climbs up his arm, stopping to perch on his shoulder with curious eyes. 

“Mairon,” Melkor breathes, “I have need of your talents once more.”

-

Angband becomes home to the sound of hammers and nests of eggs. 

In the forge Mairon labors long, crafts plates of armor for scales and ever sharp spears for claws. He shapes it in the image Melkor so desires, gives it life with smears of red and jewels of blue. Melkor hovers beside him, takes up the tools of labor and together they build and their conversation fills the gaps in between the blows of the hammer upon iron.

“Manwë is prideful of his own,” he tells the maia. “The eagles sit only upon the highest peaks, soar above the creation of all others. He has crafted hundreds Mairon. All different colors and size and yet he would deny me my own creation.”

“Do not dwell on such things,” Mairon tells him as he sets his own hand in the flame and it roars to new life. “Do not dwell upon that which they have taken away, only which you now create and claim as your own.”

Upon his throne Melkor pours his power into creatures that grow larger with each new generation. Watches as they bite and cut and rend the orcs to pieces in remembrance of past hurts. He holds them in his hands, brushes his thumb over the smallest and shapes them to fit the secret thoughts of his mind. 

-

“We may pour lesser spirits into it,” Mairon says as he stands by Melkor’s side and and watches his lord examine the work. “My wraiths will give it life and the elves will fall before it if ever they dare march upon us.”

Melkor is still as he gazes upon it, strokes the head of the serpent wrapped about his arm. 

“Allow me to show you, Master.”

Mairon is fire incarnate as he takes control of the hollow shell and raises it up in an image of terror. The head swings, the eyes burn with the rage of an entire army, and fire issues from the mouth.

Melkor is delighted. 

“Ever do you please me Mairon,” he calls, his voice holding naught but pride. “But I would not have you trapped as such when your place is at my side.”

Mairon returns to him, eyes bright and his robes trailing embers.

“You would have them breathe fire?”

“In time,” Melkor replies. “In time I would have them masters of Arda and all of her elements, such as I am.”

Mairon raises an eyebrow, and Melkor knows his lieutenant well enough to guess at the questions upon his lips and give an answer before they are spoken.  
“We will manage.”

“My Lord, our food for the orcs is stressed even now and should your …”

“Dragons.”

“Yes, should they grow to the heights which you desire I fear we may not have enough to sustain them. And where shall we keep such creatures? Already does this one span the length of my workspace and it lays still without a force of life. Should they be anything like their forerunners who now make Angband a place of play and battle the walls will shake and the floor will -”

But the smile does not fade from Melkor’s face and Mairon’s words fade away. His master will manage, he always does.

With his help of course.

-

The egg is still as it sits upon a bed of ash and dust. A large egg that reaches to the waists of the elves tasked to keep it ever in flames and extends past their frail frames. 

It sits before the throne and Mairon doubts that his lord has laid eyes upon much else since the first small shakes occurred. 

“This is to be it,” Melkor whispers, and his hand grips the arm of the throne. “The first of them all, Mairon. He will be sire to all those who follow, a father of his race.”

The hours go by in what pass as ages to Melkor and the cracks split the egg ever wider. The sounds of Angband echo about them and Mairon recalls the Music and the themes that Melkor wove into it. Was this sung then? His own thoughts had been intertwined with Aulë despite the allure Melkor’s voice had held even then. 

Melkor rises from his throne then, sweeps across the hall and the first dragon opens his eyes to behold the sight of the world. 

About him the fell birds and lizards and creatures are forgotten as Melkor studies his creation and watches as it gaze upon him with its own form of curiosity. They rest there for minutes that seem to stretch into hours and Angband is hush with the event of the new birth. 

“Mairon,” Melkor calls and he peels his glove from his hand, revealing hands burnt and pained, a terrible black that anchors him to this form. Hands that burn and in this moment hands that he places against his creation. Mairon kneels beside him, removes the second glove and Melkor traces his fingers over each scale. 

The dragon stretches its legs, whips its tail and nuzzles its head into Melkor’s hand. 

His own creation. Truly his own, at last and even the scars inflicted by the jewels seem to burn less as he gazes upon it. A beautiful creature of his own, with fire inside burning from his very ëala. 

A flame appears in the dragon’s jaws then, no larger than the sparks of Mairon’s great forge but a flame nonetheless. It issues suddenly, a stream of light and destruction. A bright pillar to touch the sky that mirrors in the eyes of all that witness it. 

And Melkor laughs with delight.

-

The firstborn grows, a vision of gold with his shining scales and ever watching eyes.

“Glaurung, I name you. The Golden. The Father of Dragons.”

He rests at Melkor’s throne, his head at his master’s feet and he learns of his wisdom and his power and of the world outside. Of the elves that carved the stones that bathe him in light, of the wars that were fought, and the hurts done unto the vala that has given him life. He learns the smell of elf, the names of those who huddle in the shadows with ever watchful eyes turned towards their home. 

“It is not yet time for you to venture forth,” Melkor tells him as whispers spread of armies that plot and plan and seek his downfall. 

But Glaurung does not listen. Steals from the sight of his master and issues forth with orcs who do not dare refuse him and his eyes that seem to bring them to order. Slips through the doors of Angband and comes before the elves as a horror that they have never seen before. The battle hangs in their favor and Glaurung is a storm moving across the land.

Inside Angband Melkor hears the roar of his beast, hears the cries of the elves and it is both fear and pride that sweeps through his chest. If the dragon falls now … no he cannot think of such a thing. Will not consider it. 

Glaurung is driven back then, is scarred and bleeds and the shame and fear burns hotter than the flames that issue from his mouth in desperation. He flees into Angband, hides deep in the caverns there and hides from his master. 

-

The second generation is born, golden and red and fierce as their father before them. Melkor takes them into his arms, touches each with uncovered hands and feeds them his might. Their voices are songs and their movements a dance and he sits before them and is pleased. 

“They think of themselves with all the pride of a firstborn,” Mairon tells him as he watches one snap at a wolf. “Their father is king and they are princes in a kingdom that bends to their will.”

“You grow jealous Mairon,” Melkor retorts with a laugh. “Your position at my side is threatened by another.”

The laughter is silenced only days later. When a cry sounds through Angband and Melkor himself comes before the orcs with questions on his tongue and anger in his heart. They bow before him. Cry apologies and beg mercy and crawl towards his feet as serpents in the dirt. 

They are dead before their bodies crumple against the wall.

Melkor kneels beside the body then, places his hand on the dragons’s head and feels as its life burns out. At his side the hatchlings cry; press their heads to his side and wraps their tails about his wrists. 

Mairon burns the dragon in flames that dance upon his master’s turned back. Melkor’s head bows low and upon his head the jewels burn and blaze with a light that Mairon can only read as sinister and joyful. Grateful for their holder’s torment. 

And Melkor grieves throughout the night.

-

The brood grows quickly then, added to by the creations of Mairon and the ever hatching eggs that issue forth creatures of all shapes and colors. They learn of the world upon his knees and whisper their first words into his ears. He is a father to his children and Mairon wonders if the Valar have ever been so with their offspring. 

He names them all; names of strength and beauty and they call their names back to him and proclaim him high above all. 

It is the power of names they learn first. Of how their own may strike fear in the hearts of those would oppose them and seek to destroy. Of how in knowing the names of the enemy they may hold sway with words of power and the magic that rests within their eyes.

“I am Melkor,” the vala tells them. “I, the mighty arising! Lord of Arda! He who sits upon the throne and gives his power to the shaping of her lands and the glory of her wonders.”

They speak among themselves and delight in riddles. They sneak about the walls of the endless tunnels and the orcs that gaze into their eyes are trapped beneath spells that they never break free off.

From Mairon their knowledge of treasure grows. Of metals and precious stones and all things that glow and shine and sparkle. They follow him to the forge. Spend hours in watch at the sight of his hammer in steady motion and nip at the gold and silver that falls from his fingers. Hide it away in hordes of their own and protect it with all the ferocity of their master. 

“They steal my work,” Mairon tells Melkor as he watches one scamper away with a goblet fastened firmly in its mouth. “They are grown greedy and too fond. We have overindulged them.”

He twists the rings upon his fingers, frowns at the small dragon at his feet. One that eyes the jewelry which such passion that Mairon wonders how far the creature is willing to go to claim them. He presses it away with his foot, hisses when the dragon scurries up his leg and snatches a mouthful of hair. It lays the loose strands of hair at Melkor’s feet, pleased with the treasure of gold and Melkor laughs long into the night.

-

Glaurung grows large. Claims a bed of gold coins and the relics of the fallen elves of Angband. He sits upon it, eats and grows and learns and gives life to brood after brood of offspring. An army, surpassing the might and power of the legions of orcs and beasts that fill the tunnels and line the passageways. 

“They yearn to travel outside the walls,” Mairon tells Melkor. “To claim a throne of their own and lay low those would seek to destroy them. Glaurung holds the sway of many orcs, they name him king and would fight at his side.”

“And what say you?”

“He will not fall so easily before them now. His fire will sweep over the land and he will come behind it as a weapon of destruction. You could press the elves from your lands if you but set him and the maiar of fire upon them.”

They issue forth from the gates then, Glaurung at their head, and the battle is that of a sudden flame. From his throne Melkor watches as they sweep over the land and bathe the fields in red and yellow. 

“They cower before me,” Glaurung says, speaks to his master’s mind and seeks for the words of praise he so desperately desires. “The elves and men fall upon their faces at your might and even the lords of the Noldor are thrown asunder as your army crashes upon it.” 

And then the tide changes. 

He is surrounded. A army of dwarves who are but mere stones to him and their axes sting his hide and his cries shake the very earth itself. 

Melkor feels as the dragon’s flesh is pierced and he is driven into a frenzy. His greatest creation laid low and beneath the brilliant light of the jewels his anger and hate grows. 

-

When next the dragon stands before him it is as a creature shamed. 

“Twice have I failed you.”

“The victory was won.”

Glaurung is quiet and in his eyes Melkor reads his thoughts. Of revenge upon those who had pained him and glory stolen and treasure to be won. Jewels rest upon the dragon’s belly, a veil of protection and precaution for the battles to come. 

The next battle, he will not fall so easy.

-

Melkor is still as the egg before him shakes, cracks and the dragon rolls forward. A tangle of limbs and wings and a head that raises to peer at him with curious eyes. 

A storm, thinks Melkor as he brushes a hand over the dragon’s head. A storm that becomes a hurricane and will grow to wage war upon those would fall upon him. A new breed, one that will fear no elf or man or ainu. 

Ancalagon. 

The dragon seems to grin at the name, spreads its wings and Melkor sees a vision of the future. Of his creature grown, towering over the very mountains themselves. A creature of fire that melts the world that Melkor might reshape it in his own image. 

The dragon curls to his side, rests its head upon his lap and makes a noise of content, of peace. For a moment the jewels are forgotten. For a moment the pain in his head and hands fade. For a moment the paranoia and the fear and the hate give way.

And Melkor is not alone.


End file.
